


Taking the Bait

by WrithingBeneathYou



Category: Naruto
Genre: Hunter AU, Hunter!Obito, M/M, Obito didn't sign up for this, Vampire overlord!Madara, Van Helsing with a modern twist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-04-21 08:35:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22056334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WrithingBeneathYou/pseuds/WrithingBeneathYou
Summary: He never chose to be born into the Uchiha surname—was never allowed the option of a ‘no thanks, think I’ll try my luck with a family that’s not batshit crazy.’ But, here he is, Uchiha Obito, last in a long line of vampire hunters, the rest having either been turned or devoured by grandpa psychopath to bolster his own power.Well, not today, Satan.Van Helsing AU for the2019 Akatsuki Holiday Gift Exchange.
Relationships: Hoshigaki Kisame/Uchiha Obito
Comments: 7
Kudos: 99





	Taking the Bait

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Joyd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joyd/gifts).

> This is a gift for InquisitorSchmooples, who requested a KisaObi Van Helsing AU with a touch of action and humor. Enjoy!

The salt in the air is so thick it sticks in Obito’s chest, makes it feel like he’s swimming instead of sprinting down an algae-slick pier. Each impact of his boots reverberates through his bones like the toll of a particularly tone deaf funeral bell, which is fitting really, considering the inevitable conclusion of this farce.

Summon the necromancer, he’s about to be dead, dead, _dead_.

Even if that’s not precisely true—even if he’s too valuable for Madara to let him die without being sucked dry first—being a bastion of goodness and the last scion of the Uchiha bloodline entitles him to a few dramatics. Still, the receding stern he’s chasing is steadily pulling out into the bay.

Clamping his jaw shut in an unconscious bid to pick up speed, Obito pumps his legs and eyes a half-deployed cast net as it drags through the water behind the commercial fishing trawler. Froth burbles up through the slats of the pier, splashing under his desperate footfalls, and waves slap against the pillars like the ocean itself is laughing. Which it probably is. This whole situation is ludicrous, he freely admits. Like an over-used plot contrivance, rumor tells of a harbinger of doom waiting in the belly of this metal behemoth, this beast. And, like usual, it’s up to him to tear Madara’s newest recruit down and try to circumvent hell on earth. 

Again.

Most families settle for exchanging lackluster phone calls every other weekend, but his only living relative prefers the poeticism of near death experiences. Funny how it’s always Obito on the receiving end.

Obito flares his nostrils and adjusts his trajectory to aim for the net. Shadows swallow the length of dock before him as his stride eats away at it—long, heavy, and deeper than any natural disruption of the light. Even the moonlight fails to illuminate what he knows should be weathered, wooden planks, but offer the meaty slap of flesh under his soles.

As realization hits, he blanches, eyes wide enough to tear-up against the bite of the wind.

“Give me a break,” he gasps, half sobbing as the pier begins to lift beneath him. A stark white mask rises to the top of the solidifying mass like flotsam, but Obito’s rabbit heart is set on running. He has a goal—the boat—and there’s nothing in this world or the next that is going to stand in the way of his self-assigned mission. 

Powering his way through the burn in his thighs, he gathers his resolve, swallows his fear, and mounts the rapidly swelling hill like a man possessed. A maw opens a pace away, glowing fire-bright, and immediately snaps shut as Obito slams the steel-toe of his boot under its chin without breaking stride.

“Kakuzu,” he roars into the night sky with more habitually ingrained bravado than courage, “can you kindly go fuck yourself?” 

With a last burst of effort, he kicks off of the fire heart’s head and launches himself through the air to land solidly on the casting net. That’s the plan at least. Instead, the vessel’s wake reaches up with white-capped hands to catch him as he falls woefully short. Water slams up his nose and plunging into the frigid ocean reminds him that, sex-appeal aside, leather is a poor choice for active wear.

Nor is it all that efficient for _swimming after a boat_.

For all the energy he puts into it, bemoaning the fact of his existence doesn’t make Obito strip his coat off any faster or sink into the turbulent waters any slower. It’s not his fault, though; he was never cut out to be a glorious vampire slayer. That mantle just happened to fall on him without so much as a ‘by your leave.’

He’s no Hashirama—god among hunters, purportedly with an ice demon in his thrall. He’s not even a Minato, who probably sucked the sun god’s dick for all that he’s even mortal anymore. Uchiha Obito isn’t like them. He’s a poor, unfortunate human whose only defining feature is that his great-great-whatever-the-hell relation is the most powerful vampiric terror in existence and the one thing keeping that evil bastard from conquering the mortal world is a twenty-something college dropout who made it to adulthood by the skin of his teeth. There was no skill involved, just blind, stupid luck and a weird penchant for knives and fire.

He never chose to be born into the Uchiha surname—was never allowed the option of a ‘no thanks, think I’ll try my luck with a family that’s not batshit crazy.’ But, here he is, Uchiha Obito, last in a long line of vampire hunters, the rest having either been turned or devoured by grandpa psychopath to bolster his own power.

Well, not today, Satan.

Wriggling violently to escape the whispering trails of magic around him, Obito finally manages to rip his arms free of the coat, tearing off his stiff jerkin along with it on impulse. They quickly flutter off into the depths like the ghost of a cuttlefish. His boots follow just as a vividly white specter appears to grow closer in his periphery, siren song ratcheting up in the closing distance.

The water heart, he realizes, starting to panic. 

As often as he taunts and cajoles, of all the monsters comprising Madara’s inner circle, he fears Kakuzu the most. The others will show him pity from time to time, but that amalgamation of body parts and spite gives him no quarter.

Rallying his courage, Obito propels his head above the surface for a breath, then dives back down as he cuts through the water in pursuit of the whine of the boat’s turbine. The roar of an inferno roiling over the ocean’s surface has him reaching farther, stroking faster. Even if the water mask is content to herd him from a distance, the fire mask is rarely so patient.

Blind and desperate, he closes the distance more quickly than expected.

His knuckles slam against metal, scraped bloody across a layer of barnacles. He lets loose a stream of bubbles in startlement, then surfaces with an explosive inhale, lungs burning. Sending up a prayer to whichever god happens to be listening, he gropes his way along the hull until he can feel the strong draw of the propeller. It’s with his heart in his throat that he lets go and trusts whatever tattered luck has kept him alive thus far to pull through one more time.

And it does.

Rope grasps at his arms and all but captures his wrists, thick and blessedly unbroken. Well, the night may have started inauspiciously, but maybe the tides are starting to turn. With a relieved grin, Obito curls his body around the net to get a proper foothold and starts the long, arduous climb. Hair plastered to his face and nipples hard enough to cut glass, he manages to crest the side of the boat without succumbing to the biting wind, though he can feel the distinct crackle of frost under his palms as he hoists his belly up onto the rail. The scar tissue across his chest begins to pull, but he muscles through the discomfort to wriggle his hips until he tips over and lands in a sodden sprawl on the deck.

He’s an ex-literature major, not a gymnast, and this boat was clearly designed wrong.

“_Ah, as graceful as ever!_" a lilting voice pronounces and it takes everything in Obito not to scream.

In an instant, his silver knife flashes to life as he whips a leg out and uses the momentum to bring him spinning to his feet, knees soft and teeth bared. The darkness here is thicker, gains substance until a subtle disturbance in the air reveals two glowing points.

Exhaling long and slow, Obito affords himself a second to calm his racing heart and take stock of his surroundings while resheathing his knife. Nothing noteworthy. A dilapidated boat, more rust than metal, broken crates, and a single plant-based shit lord.

“Zetsu,” he breaths, head dropping as relief colors his voice.

The fissure gapes open, spreading wide as if birthing the moon, then coalesces into the left half of a man, bone-white and glowing. Humming softly, Zetsu does something odd with their hand and _pulls_ the darkness in until they’re hale and whole, eyes vibrant with chakra. 

“**Inelegant. Weak. It’s a wonder Madara deigns to keep you alive**,” Black Zetsu comments in their deep baritone—dark and ancient—the familiarity of which is comforting in a way Obito refuses to consider further.

“Good to see you, too, aloe-breath,” he quips with undisguised humor. As the only monstrous denizen of Madara’s little cult to hold the title of ‘never actively tried to kill me’, Obito has always found himself being a little more accepting of them. A touch less on-edge. It’s a stupid, deadly mistake, but in a world where friends die and family kills, it’s nice to have someone to project a little softness onto. Like the way he pats the pommel of his saddle or kisses his crossbow goodnight. 

Gods above, he needs to get out more.

“_**Tobi, you know we don’t mean any offence. As you say, it’s been quite some time; you look to be in good health**_,” White Zetsu says, stepping close and squatting to study the oozing blood on Obito’s knuckles. “_**Maybe less punching ships, though?**_”

“It hit me first. And what did I tell you about calling me that?”

“**Our sincerest apologies**,” Zetsu drawls as they drag black fingertips over the wound and leave nothing but pristine skin in their wake. “**We suppose we’ll need time to come up with a proper diminutive. One that fully encapsulates your,**” they pause for dramatic effect, licking the smear of blood from their fingers as they stand, “**prowess.**”

Snorting, Obito scrubs his face and works his jaw. While it’s nice to have his good hand back in working order, the cold isn’t doing him any favors and his right side is getting so stiff it hurts. Whichever Grimm’s fairy tale monster is holed up in the belly of this beast, it’s leeching the heat from his bones and he would very much like for it to _stop_.

“So what did Grandpa Creepy sink his claws into this time? Ice giant? Abominable snow man? Elsa?” he asks, patting his holsters to reaffirm his stake-count and wincing when he comes up short.

A white hand waves off his question, making a complicated series of signs in the air. Nothing eventful happens, no sharp crackle of chakra or heaviness in his chest, so he writes it off as another of their peculiarities.

“_A djinn, actually. His immortal retainer, as well. They’re a prickly sort and not at all interested in conversation, unfortunately._”

“Yeah, being abducted and forced into servitude by a megalomaniacal vampire will do that to you,” Obito points out.

“_Yes. Forced. I suppose you’ll be rescuing them, then? **We do so love a good story.**_”

Zetsu’s smile is sharp, eldritch as they gesture towards the crates in Obito’s path and pull the splinters away. They slide across the floor and meld together into an elegant simulacra of vines, the lovely image a bit jarring when juxtaposed by the dilapidated ship around them.

Obito sees fit to take advantage of the cleared walkway and sweeps past, plunging into the shadows with as much composure as he can rally with his sodden shirt half off and slapping against his thighs, bare feet pattering quietly. The twisted remains of the aft wall of the captain’s cabin appear suddenly, rends edged in a sickly red glow. A thin patina of sand leads away from what looks to be a ravaging by some great beast, and Obito swallows heavily in realization. What’s sitting in the cargo hold, waiting to be liberated isn’t so much emanating cold so as it’s absorbing heat. Djinn are denizens of the desert—crafty, conniving creatures that are way too over-powered for one little second-string hunter like him. And, even bound by Madara’s indomitable thrall, this one is apparently strong enough to warp the weather to make his stay more comfortable.

If this is the third great desert lord he’s rescuing, he’s going to piss on Madara’s coffin at the next family reunion. 

Groaning, Obito leaps over a pool of red sand and tries to focus on less ominous things…like how lacking in imagination his Warring States Period ancestor is.

“Okay, we’ve established the spooky backdrop, barreled through the action-packed lead in, and located the damsel in distress,” he says with the expectation that Zetsu has followed him as he steadily picks his way towards the cargo hold. “All that’s left is the rising climax. So who’s the bad guy this time? Dei? Hidan? With as pissy as Kakuzu was, I’ll bet it’s Voodoo-boy.”

There’s a dry laugh, as old as the first root, and a fluttering of magic that makes Obito’s teeth rattle. When it passes, the air around them settles into something a bit more temperate, but no less portentous. Below he can feel vibrations rising up though the hull. 

“_Ah, not this time. Madara is interested to see how you fare against Kisame._”

“The hell is a kisame?”

“_Hoshigaki is one of Madara’s most recent procurements, a taniwha from the northern island of New Zealand_,” Zetsu replies offhandedly, oddly dismissive.

It earns them a baleful glare as Obito blows a raspberry over his shoulder.

“Sometimes I think you just like to make up words.”

Not inviting further conversation, Obito takes off at a sedate jog, then pushes harder, faster, making sure to keep his weight evenly distributed and his footfalls light. His heart sets up a staccato beat in his ears that’s well matched to the pace he sets. He rounds the sidewall of another series of cabins with the force of a man given foresight into his own quickly approaching end. As much as he likes to play the fool, knowledge is a weapon he’s honed well.

Taniwha are dangerous in ways that the other things that go bump in the night could only hope to be—massive, Herculean chakra beasts with immeasurable endurance. But, they’re so rarely seen outside of their waterways, and such staunchly loyal familial guardians that hunters have little need to purge them.

Which begs the question, how did Madara of all people win that devotion? 

Uchiha Madara, the poster child of duplicity and familicide. His hair isn’t even that nice.

Well, he’ll find out soon enough, Obito thinks darkly as he forgoes a flight of stairs in favor of sliding down the railing at speed. The drop is longer than he expects and, with the additional velocity he’s gained, he overshoots the mark on his landing by at least a meter. All of the effort he puts into obfuscating his approach winds up for naught. Stakes go clattering across the metal deck, sending up a cacophony whose volume is only exceeded by the percussive ensemble of a man rolling ass over teakettle.

Poor life choices and impaired depth perception strike again.

“Ugh,” he groans, clutching his head in hopes that the pressure will make the world stop spinning. His ankles are bruised and if the fire-bright burn is any indication, the metal grate scraped another bite out of his right shoulder on impact. It’s not going to change the aesthetic, but he hates the reminder of what caused his scars in the first place—Suikazan Fuguki’s stupid grin and that vampiric scale sword that he _never wants to see again_. 

Whatever, Fuguki got staked a long time ago.

At this point, Obito just wants to go home.

“Not having a great day, eh?” an unfamiliar voice asks right above him, chuckling softly.

“The worst, you have no idea,” he shoots back, not deigning to uncurl from his pitiful fetal position. A flash of black sandals and blue toes in front of his face is all he needs for this night to sink even further into ‘the gods have forsaken me’ territory. “Hoshigake, right? If you could pretend you didn’t see that, I’d really appreciate it.”

There’s a huff of amusement and that already melodious tenor drops a register. “Consider my lips sealed.”

“Cool. Thanks.” Obito has nothing more to say, so he continues to make friends with the deck as his mind races through options. Taking advantage of that single moment of surprise where the taniwha wouldn’t be able to taste him in the air was critical. The demonic dampening seal etched into his knife-blade would have activated and afforded him the opportunity to slap a handful of wet pumice into his mouth at the pained gasp. Easy. Demon-binding 101. Now, having royally screwed up his approach, there’s really nothing left to do.

“Do you,” there’s a strange pause and Obito can pretty much picture the facial gymnastics Kisame must be going through, “need help getting up?”

He briefly considers looking up—blue toes aside, he’s never seen a taniwha before—but no matter how ludicrous the situation has become, embarrassment is still burning under his skin and blooming bright on his cheeks.

“Nope. I’m a world-class hunter, you know. Renowned far and wide, pretty much a legend. Getting up would mean fighting me and to be honest, I don’t think you’re cut out for handling all of _this_.” He allows a moment of silence for Kisame to properly unpack that, then follows up with “I’ve chosen to be lenient because I’m such a nice guy.” There. Poetry.

“That’s very gracious of you,” Kisame agrees readily, polite enough to swallow a laugh.

Water rhythmically churns in the distance, bracketed by the hum of the trawler’s engines. Even so, Obito doesn’t miss the telltale sound of fabric rustling, nor the waves of body heat as Kisame squats down and drags his hands from his face by the wrists. It’s mortifying how easily he does it, particularly when Obito is resisting with all of his might. Blinking blearily, he looks up into the upside-down face of his destruction.

Strong cheekbones, a jawline sharp enough to cut glass, and a smile so picturesque he instantly forgives the amount of serrated teeth it’s packed with.

“Oh no,” he whispers, eyes wide and lips slack in horror. “You’re _hot_.”

Kisame’s brow crinkles at that, smile going lax at the edges as color bleeds into his cheeks. And oh, that’s a really pretty shade of indigo. Obito’s never shared the proclivities other hunters boast about when alcohol is plentiful and spirits are high, but he thinks that they might have a point. If this nightmare scenario miraculously culminates with his blood still in his veins, maybe he’ll see if the taniwha wants to go on a date or something. Mix work with pleasure.

A moonlit stroll on the beach. Skinny-dipping at the inlet. Anything water-themed and clothing optional, he’s not picky.

“Why are you hot?” he groans, question ending with a death rattle wrenched from his very soul. Leave it to Madara to know his most glaring weakness, aside from the Jack of all trades mediocrity he’s fallen into and complete lack of interest in upholding the clan name. Minor things, comparatively.

“Now I really _can’t_ fight you.”

There’s a tense pause where Kisame looks down at him, unsure, and Obito meets that white gaze with shell-shocked wonder. The timing is inappropriate—there’s still a bottled djinn and a foe to vanquish, Kakuzu waiting in the wings to ruin his day—but Obito is done with playing out the same tired narrative every time Madara has a fit of pique. It’s time to change up the story.

Before he can say anything more, Kisame huffs, shaking his head, then scoops his hands beneath Obito’s armpits and effortlessly lifts. Even without supernatural ability, the taniwha is broad and muscular enough to make the maneuver seem effortless, like Obito weighs nothing. The rubber of his soles squeaks against the metal deck as he shifts his weight, waiting with an undue amount of patience for Obito’s poor brain to catch up while he awkwardly scrambles to get his footing.

It’s hard, though, with algae and wet, bare feet to contend with. Obviously the only option is for Obito to use his innate athletic ability to spin like a lamed dancer and brace himself against that massive chest. Kisame’s skin is rough, like sandpaper and slightly cool to the touch—the spirit of a shark wrapped up in a hunky, person-shaped package. If he’s going to get his ass kicked and handed over to Mads, at least he’ll have the memory of cupping those giant pecs to keep him company while he playacts a juice box.

“You got a name, kid?” Kisame asks, sighing as he steadies Obito’s shoulders.

“Scourge of the dark, hunter extraordinaire, Uchiha Obito,” he replies, purposefully ignoring the less-than-flattering endearment in favor of watching the corners of Kisame’s mouth turn down ominously. The bracing weight on his shoulders grows heavy, fingers digging in strong enough to bruise. There’s a slow, thunderous rumble building, setting the boat to trembling beneath their feet, and it only takes a second to realize it’s coming from the taniwha.

“Uchiha-sama failed to mention you were clan,” Kisame states without inflection.

Obito swallows against the sudden dryness in his throat, but doesn’t make to pull away. Mark him scared _and_ horny.

“Yeah, well ‘Uchiha-sama’ is a giant, murderous bag of dicks with dust for brains,” he points out.

Surprisingly, his scathing commentary has the vice grip on his shoulders loosening, those broad palms massaging the blood back into his arms.

“This changes things,” Kisame pronounces.

And doesn’t that sound promising? With his stakes scattered around the deck and his more lethal weapons serving as homes for hermit crabs in the bottom of the bay, Obito has few options other than relying on the kindness of strangers. Gorgeous, muscular strangers.

“Like ‘Obito gets to live’ things? Because those are the best things,” he asks, testing Kisame’s hold.

His daring brings back Kisame’s smile, garnering a coy tilt of the head.

“Ah, and here I thought you said I was the one in danger,” he points out.

Obito laughs in embarrassment, pointedly looking anywhere but up; it’s not often he’s called out on his nonsense so directly. Well, by Hidan sometimes, but Voodoo-boy’s opinion doesn’t count.

When he doesn’t reply, Kisame’s bearing grows serious again.

“I pledged my loyalty to your family a few generations ago, when Fugaku served as clan head. Uchiha Madara asked me to step into my role as guardian to ‘fix an embarrassing oversight,’ but he never said that you were blood.”

Good to know Obito ranks as ‘an embarrassing oversight.’ Though, it’s a marked improvement from the things Madara usually calls him. Lost in his derisive musings, he misses what Kisame says next, only catching the trailing rumble that sounds like a portent of death.

“Sorry, what was that?” he asks, blinking quickly.

Kisame carefully rakes his claws through Obito’s hair and pushes it back off of his face.

“I said ‘I don’t take well to betrayal,’” he repeats dutifully. “If Madara wants me to reprise my role as guardian, I’ll do it, but not the way he expects. I have a feeling you’ll be seeing a lot of me.” There’s an odd sort of gentleness in the way he pulls Obito’s sopping shirt back onto his shoulder and settles the line of buttons where they should be. His nostrils flare at the blooming scent of blood where Obito’s shoulder continues to ooze, but aside from his rapidly dilating pupils, there’s no sense of danger, only quiet concern.

Obito allows himself an honest smile. “I have no idea what any of that means, but I’m really hoping that you’re implying we’re magic-married now. Spiritual boyfriends? Plucky team-up? I’ll take anything at this point. Not that I’m desperate, I—”

Kisame cuts him off with a hand over his mouth, laughing.

“Something like that. Come on, world-class hunter, let’s get you back on land.”

“That sounds great. Like, really, really good. A -plus plan. But, shouldn’t we free the djinn before we go? That’s kind of the whole reason I’m here, so Madara can’t get his claws into another over-powered minion and bring about the destruction of the world.”

Kisame’s brow wrinkles in confusion.

“Free The Third from what? He’s just helping Sasori guide the boat.”


End file.
